Diathesis-Stress
by dancinginthesunlight
Summary: /"As his mind begins to numb and he drifts off to sleep, Jason thinks that this is what the gods missed when they devised Tartarus, this liquid that tastes like the Phlegethon with all the powers of the Lethe."/ A Jason Grace character study. Pre-HOO, slight Jeyna.


**Diathesis-Stress**

_Night after night, day after day  
__Jack and coke smoking on the fire escape  
__Is it too soon or is it too late  
__-Wasted, MKTO_

* * *

"Reyna," he says, "Smell this."

She gives him a questioning look but obliges and raises the plastic cup toward her face.

"Looks like Dakota's finally moved on from Kool-Aid."

"What—"

"Alcohol, Jase," Reyna clarifies. "It's spiked. We should probably tell someone."

_Alcohol?_

At thirteen, he's never been anywhere near the stuff, so he's not sure why the scent seems familiar. Except…

Reyna must see the expression on his face – she's only been at camp a few weeks, but she can already read him like a book – because she places the cup back on the table behind them. "What's wrong?"

"I think… It reminds me of…"

Reyna studies him, maybe sensing that he's about to reveal something personal, which he almost never does.

"It reminds me of my mother."

Her eyebrows furrow together. "I thought you said you didn't remember your mom."

"I don't."

"But—"

"I just… it smells like… like she _would_, I guess. I don't know."

Reyna is quiet for a while, long enough that Jason wonders whether maybe she didn't hear him, but then she says, "You know, I read somewhere that scents can jog memories. Sometimes."

She doesn't say what she must be thinking, but she doesn't have to.

* * *

"Come on, Grace," Gwen taunts, lunging and very nearly striking him in the chest with her sword. "If you're going to be sent out on a quest tonight, you're going to have to do better than that."

"They won't send me," he protests, parrying her next attack and responding with one of his own, a weak attempt that she dodges easily. "No one from the Fifth Cohort has been on a quest since—"

"Hey," Gwen says sharply. "With that attitude, you _definitely_ won't go on a quest. Ever."

"Sorry."

"No," she says, lunging again, "Not '_sorry._' You are a member of the Fifth Legion, and you're a damn good leader." She pauses. "There's been talk about making you a Centurion."

"What? But I'm only thirteen—"

"Yeah," Gwen continues. "So you need to stay on your game. You're a good kid, Grace. Keep doing what you're doing and you'll be Praetor by the time you're my age. Hell, you'd bring all kinds of honor to the Fifth Cohort."

"_Praetor_?"

Gwen gives him a look and feints left before slamming her sword into the right side of his armor.

"You'll go far," she says. "Everyone expects you to, and there's no reason why you shouldn't. Just keep doing what you're doing."

"Thanks."

"And go kill 'em on that quest."

* * *

"He's a son of Jupiter. Like, _the_ Jupiter. Probably the most powerful demigod in _decades_."

* * *

He learns quickly that feigning bravery is the best tactic for defeating monsters.

"Come on," he motions to Reyna, hoping to all the gods that his plan – if you could call it that – works. "Let's go."

He expects her to call him on it, to tell him that throwing rocks at the Neades is an absolutely idiotic war strategy.

But Reyna just nods. "Okay."

She must read his expression, because she stops and asks, "What?"

"Nothing. I just… you don't have any suggestions for a better plan?"

"No," Reyna says, tossing her dark braid over her shoulder like he'd just asked if pigs could fly. "I trust you."

* * *

"I just think that we should send someone slightly more _experienced_," Octavian says. The derision in his voice is clear.

"Jason has experience," Reyna says, agitated, "Or did you miss the part where he single-handedly saved the entire state of California from the Curse of Vespasian?"

"He can kick my ass in swordfighting," Gwen offers.

"And as Centurion," Bobby starts, "He has clearly demonstrated his leadership capabilities."

"But this is the Trojan Sea Monster we're talking about," Octavian argues. "Not some training exercise. The kid is _fourteen_."

"He's a son of Jupiter. One of our strongest campers." Bobby doesn't wait for Octavian's response before turning to the assembly and asking, "All in favor?"

They are.

* * *

"You're going to do great," Reyna says. "Stop worrying." _It makes you look weak._ The words go unsaid, but Jason can hear them clearly in her tone.

So he gives her the answer she expects.

"I'm not worried."

* * *

He knows the facts, of course: left at age two at the Wolf House to be trained by Lupa and brought to Camp Jupiter.

Sometimes he wonders if his mother is still out there somewhere. If they share the same eyes or laugh or inability to cook without setting something on fire.

If she ever sits up at night wishing that she hadn't abandoned her son.

* * *

"It's not your fault."

"Jason."

"Jason, please, listen to me. Nothing you could've done would have made a difference. These things happen."

"I really wish you'd talk to me."

"Jason, you're a demigod. People are going to die. It's part of the deal. And it sucks, but that's what happens, and you need to learn to deal with it if you're ever—"

"You need to put this behind you."

"Look on the bright side, you slew the Trojan Sea Monster. You accomplished the goal of your quest."

"Everyone else is depending on you to be a leader right now, so stop being so godsdamn selfish."

* * *

He's surrounded by people, but the absences are conspicuous, bearing down like a heavy weight over his chest, reminding him with each heartbeat that _their_ hearts aren't beating, that _his_ quest went wrong, that _he's_ responsible for their deaths.

_Zeinab. Luther. Kristen._

His head throbs with the steady rhythm of their names pounding against his eardrums.

Wine is only used for ceremonial sacrifices in New Rome, but no one will notice one missing bottle.

He contemplates it for a while.

When he's back in his room, he shoves the unopened bottle under his bed, disgusted with his actions.

He promises himself that he'll return it in the morning.

* * *

"You're handling it well," Reyna observes.

He doesn't answer, pretending to be absorbed in his copy of Livy's _Books From the Foundation of the City_.

"Really," she says. "You're a good leader."

"Because I don't cry about my friends being dead?" He spits the words out before he can think them through and instantly regrets them.

"Because you stay strong in the face of all this. It's… admirable."

He thinks he sees her blushing, but he can't be sure, because the next thing she says is, "I'm nominating you for Praetor."

* * *

When he dreams of them – normal, human dreams, not the demigod kind – he sees them as they were when they were alive.

_Zeinab. Luther. Kristen._

When he wakes up in the morning to a world without them in it, the weight of their lives presses down on his chest with the images of their anguished, screaming faces in the final throes of death.

_It's not your fault._

_ Yes it is._

* * *

He lasts two weeks before he breaks the seal on the wine bottle.

* * *

"Octavian says he's found a new prophecy."

"Okay."

"He says you're a part of it," Bobby continues.

Curiosity grabs Jason's attention and he gives up his attempt at disinterest. "Why?"

"Um, so you know how your dad wasn't really supposed to have children?"

* * *

_He catches the girl sitting in one of the old hallways that winds its way around the back of the Temple of Mercury, knees drawn up to her chest, head down._

_ "You okay?" he asks._

_ When she looks up at him to nod, he notices tears rushing down her face._

_ "Do you want to talk about it?"_

_ She shifts her gaze back down to the ground. "No. I'm fine."_

_"Are you sure?"_

_ "You're _Jason Grace_," she says, the way one might say "You're_ Barack Obama_."_

_ "Uh," he says, "Yeah." He should be used to that response by now, ever since he and Reyna defeated the Curse of Vespasian, but it still makes him uncomfortable. "Sorry," he continues, "I don't know your name…?"_

_ "Zeinab," she says, her voice soft. She must be about eleven or twelve._

_ "Zeinab," he repeats. "It's nice to meet you." He hesitates, but when she doesn't volunteer any more information, he asks, "And really. You can tell me anything."_

_ It's like a floodgate has opened; Zeinab bites her lip once before opening her mouth to speak._

_ "My mom—" but then she chokes up and doesn't finish the sentence._

_ She doesn't have to._

_ "You're Leila Barakat's sister," Jason realizes. He knows the story – everyone does. Jena Barakat had been a legacy of Mercury who had seemed like she had it all. Until the cancer diagnosis. "Come on," he says, reaching out a hand to help her stand. _

_ She looks up at him questioningly._

_ "Your mom's in the hospital. Let's go visit."_

Zeinab. Luther. Kristen.

* * *

"Saturn is getting stronger," Reyna tells the Senate. The Praetor robes look good on her, purple and gold accentuating the vividness of her eyes, but Jason can't really look; they remind him too much of the position he might someday hold.

A position he doesn't deserve.

* * *

In his dreams, he always hears Jena Barakat's words to him in the hospital room that day, spoken through chapped lips while she struggled to breathe.

_"Take care of my girls."_

It's always coupled with the last image he has of Zeinab, of the poisoned arrow piercing her skin because he was too occupied slaying the Sea Monster to notice. If he had been just a few seconds faster, he could have diverted the air currents, or blasted the arrow apart with electricity, or_ something_.

But there's nothing he can do about that now.

_Take care of my girls._

* * *

He makes the mistake of trying to take a straight shot of vodka, but it barely touches his tongue before he spits it back out into the sink, mouth burning.

Wine has a sickly sweet aftertaste that never really manages to take the edge off the guilt welling up inside of him.

He doesn't know what to expect with hard liquor, but alcohol is _supposed_ to make him feel better about everything and the wine. Isn't. Working.

Jason grimaces at his reflection. He hates himself for this – a few weeks shy of fifteen and already drinking alcohol, which the logical part of his brain knows is wrong. He's probably screwing up all kinds of brain functioning.

He's opening up Pandora's Box, but sometimes chaos is the only thing that helps.

So he pours himself another shot, this time anticipating the feeling of his tongue catching fire, and imagines that the flames turning his veins to ash are a penance for all the ways he hasn't managed to live up to expectations.

As his mind begins to numb and he drifts off to sleep, Jason thinks that this is what the gods missed when they devised Tartarus, this liquid that tastes like the Phlegethon with all the powers of the Lethe.

* * *

The Senate meeting passes in a blur. He's not drunk – at least, he thinks he isn't – but he's having trouble processing what's happening and it's not until the Senators have voted and he is being draped in purple and gold that he really understands what's happening.

_Praetor_.

Reyna is smiling, congratulating him, and people are cheering, but it doesn't really register.

He's wondering about the last few ounces of vodka he has hidden under his bed and where he's going to find a replacement bottle.

* * *

_When Jason enters the equipment shed to grab shields for the Probatios to use the last thing he expects to find is Kristen Englewood making out with Eliza Buchanan. He vaguely registers that as a guy he's supposed to find this hot and thrilling, but his thirteen year old mind is mostly just confused as to how Kristen has managed to get farther with a girl than he ever has._

_ He stands there stupidly in the doorway for a while before he clears his throat in what has to be the most uncomfortable way possible – gods, could he be any more awkward? – and Kristen jumps back and looks at him with her mouth half open in surprise._

_ "S-sorry!" he manages to blurt. "I didn't—I—sorry!"_

_ Eliza backs up against the wall as though she might be able to make herself disappear, mumbling something unintelligible. Her face is awash with fear._

_ But Kristen just laughs and reaches for Eliza's hand. "'Sup, Grace?"_

_ "I—I won't tell anyone," he stammers, still caught off guard. "I mean, I don't—you can—"_

_ "Look, I know you're a goody-two-shoes, Grace, but seriously, you need to get out more." Kristen arches a brow. "The word is _'lesbian,'_" she says, all sarcasm mixed with amusement._

_ She is dead less than a year later. _

Zeinab. Luther. Kristen.

* * *

Midway through February, he is _really, truly,_ honest-to-gods drunk.

He sneaks a flask into the Feast of Lupercalia and within an hour the room is spinning and he's having trouble walking straight, but for _once_ he is _finally, finally _free of the lingering weight of his guilt.

Reyna appears in his field of vision, smiling with what he thinks might be nervousness but his foggy mind makes it hard to tell.

"Hey," she says, a little breathless, and he answers, and then the next few minutes are a blur in his mind before his memory fades back in and he's with Reyna in an abandoned corner and her lips are on his and this is his _first kiss_ and it should be _important_ but he can't really bring himself to care which is weird because he'd always thought a first kiss would mean more than this but then—

Reyna pulls back sooner than he thought she would. "What the _fuck_, Jason?"

He's wondering vaguely if maybe he's bad at the kissing thing – he'd deserve that – but then she's staring at him with revulsion in her eyes.

"What?"

"You've been drinking."

It's a statement, not a question, and Jason doesn't really feel the need to comment on it. Instead he lets Reyna's words wash over him. He's only half-listening, but his best friend is upset and he should stand here with her, probably. Maybe.

"_Deodamnatus_," she swears quietly, furiously wiping something off her face. "I'm just so fucking _stupid_, aren't I?"

He wants to apologize, to tell her that this is all his fault just like everything else.

Instead, he throws up on her feet.

* * *

Sometimes he dreams of a dark-haired girl with electric blue eyes to match his own.

He has no idea who she is.

* * *

Reyna sits perched on the edge of the bathtub while Jason empties his stomach into the toilet. Somehow, this is not how he expected his first kiss to go.

"I'm sorry." He hates that she has to see him like this.

"Well," she says coolly, no sign that she had just been crying, "You're buying me a new pair of shoes."

He nods, then leans over the bowl and retches again.

"Are you sure you don't want me to get a medic or something?"

He shakes his head. "No. I don't" – pause, dry heave – "I don't want to get into trouble for it."

Reyna looks unconvinced, but she just shakes her head at him and says, "Look, I don't know what's going on with you, but you need to figure it out. Octavian's already out to impeach you and if we're going to take on Saturn—"

"Yeah. I know."

"And you know this is so irresponsible of you—"

"I saw the PSA. Alcohol is bad. Got it." His stomach turns, so he shuts his eyes and doesn't say anything else.

"Everyone's going to be looking up to you."

"Reyna," he says, pushing through another wave of nausea. "Why are you still here?"

She's quiet for a while, and he imagines that she's glaring at the back of his head.

"You're my best friend," she says finally. "I can't just leave."

* * *

Later, when he can finally walk to his bed without vomiting, she shoves a bottle of Gatorade at him.

"Thanks—" he starts, but she cuts him off with steel in her voice.

"Don't you ever fucking do that again."

_I won't_, he wants to promise, _I'll never drink again_.

But he just closes his eyes and eventually he hears Reyna's footsteps fading away. The light beyond his eyelids flickers out – Reyna must have hit the switch – and just when he thinks she's gone he hears her soft whisper, "Happy Valentine's Day."

* * *

_Jason feels the searing pain in his side, but it's not until he brushes a hand against the now-torn fabric of his T-shirt that he notices how severely he's bleeding._

"_Shit," he hears Gwen mutter under her breath. "Someone get a medic."_

"_I'm fine," Jason says, but he has to struggle not to let the pain show on his face. "I just need some water."_

_He somehow manages to make it to the bathroom before he collapses to the ground, the cut in his side throbbing._

_It might be seconds, it might be minutes, but eventually the door swings open and shut with a creak and a thud. _

"_Holy shit, you need ambrosia STAT," Luther digs into his backpack as he speaks. _

"_I'm… okay," Jason manages, but Luther is unconvinced. _

"_Jason. Needing _medical attention_ is not the same as appearing weak. Eat this."_

_The ambrosia explodes on his tongue like the pop-rocks-brownies Reyna had made him for his birthday._

"_Wow," Luther is saying, "Got you in literally the only place your armor doesn't cover. You gotta admit Bobby's a lot better with a sword than he lets on."_

"_Great," Jason mutters._

"_You know when the praetors talk about 'discipline,' they don't mean ignoring the fact that you're human, right?" Luther asks as he pulls apart Jason's shirt, pressing a damp cloth to the wound. "I mean, gods, you're allowed to make mistakes sometimes."_

* * *

He tells himself that he's finished drinking, that even Atlas bore the weight of the sky on his own.

Reyna watches with a stern eye as he empties his support system down the drain.

They don't talk about The Night.

* * *

"Krios has rebuilt Mount Othrys," Octavian announces over the ashes of a beanie-baby turtle. "We need to act now. I have consulted the auguries…"

"Blah, blah," Dakota stage-whispers, but his voice reminds Jason of the fiery sensation of a shot of vodka and he has to force himself to pay attention. He knows that for a few dollars (in mortal money; there are no liquor stores at Camp Jupiter) Dakota will happily take a trip out to San Francisco with the camp van and a fake ID.

No. He's promised himself he's done with this.

But then Octavian is beheading a stuffed eagle and calling out Jason's name like a death sentence, and he flashes back to his last quest, when Zeinab and Kristen and Luther were killed in front of his eyes and he could do nothing to stop them and why does no one else remember?

But everyone is looking up to him, so he puts on a brave face and stands up and announces that he accepts the quest.

* * *

He digs into his wallet for two twenties and taps twice on Bacchus's temple door. Dakota cracks the door open, sees that it's Jason, and invites him in.

"Haven't seen you in a while."

"Yeah," Jason says.

In this moment, he hates himself. He really, truly hates himself.

But the knowledge that in just a few hours he can be blissfully unaware of all the shit going on around him keeps him standing there long enough to pass over the money to Dakota.

The son of Bacchus raises an eyebrow. "You know I only need twenty-five, right?"

"I know," Jason says. "The extra fifteen—" he hesitates, and _gods _a double-shot of Smirnoff would be the greatest thing in the world right now – "Um, when Reyna comes over tomorrow before we leave for the quest, if you could tell her… if you could tell her that you haven't seen me here…"

_Lie to my best friend._

Dakota contemplates the cash in his hand, then nods slowly. Then he disappears into the temple, reemerging a moment later with a handle of Grey Goose and two shot glasses.

"Cheers."

* * *

"Jason," Reyna says, grabbing for his arm.

"What?" he snaps. Can't she see that he's in the middle of staging a battle against a fucking Titan?

"I know you've been drinking again."

"For fuck's sake, Reyna, we're in the middle of taking down Mount Othrys, not _couples therapy_. Give it a_ rest_ already." It might be the liquor talking, but he's _mad_ and he wants her to _know it_.

"I'm worried about you!" she yells. "I know you feel guilty about what happened with Kristen and all them, but godsdamnit, Jason, it's been a year and a half and you can't keep doing this!"

"Doing what?" he yells back, and a few demigods – the ones who are supposed to be following _his_ orders – turn to look. "I'm _fine_, Reyna."

She keeps her voice level, but he sees tears pricking at the corners of her eyes. "I think you have a problem."

"I don't have a problem," he says sharply.

Then, to prove his point, he charges at Krios.

The part of his brain that isn't flooded with alcohol registers that this is an incredibly stupid idea. But Reyna's words make him so _angry_ – _I don't have a problem, I don't have a problem, I don't have a fucking problem _– that he makes an almost animalistic growl as he plunges Ivlivs into Krios's exterior.

A shock wave knocks him back, but by then the entire twelfth legion fulminata has charged and the walls of Mount Othrys begin to crumble from the force of the attack.

Reyna composes herself and begins barking orders, but there's her voice is strained in a way Jason can't help but notice.

She's supposed to be his best friend, he reasons. She shouldn't be accusing him of—of having a _problem_. Because he's fine.

He's _fine_. And besides, _she's_ the one having issues. She's probably just pissed because he didn't kiss her back that one time.

And _so what_ if he's been drinking? He's clearly still in control – still capable of slaying monsters and holding his own in a fight against a _Titan_.

He _does not_ have a _problem_.

He uses his rage to fuel his onslaught against Krios, lunging at the Titan with a fervor like he's never felt before.

* * *

They give him an award for his courage on the battlefield.

He wants to throw up. He takes another shot instead and pretends that the reason he can't get out of bed until four in the afternoon is that he's exhausted.

* * *

"Seventeen dead," Reyna says, slapping a list of names onto his desk. "And I found this under your bed."

It's a half-empty bottle of whiskey.

"You went through my stuff?" he asks, outraged.

"This isn't okay, Jason. You're _fifteen_."

Something inside him snaps.

"Yeah," he says bitterly. "I'm fifteen. And I'm a son of Jupiter. And _everyone_ expects me to be fucking perfect because none of you want to believe I'm just as screwed up as everyone else is."

"Jason—"

"I don't have a _problem_, Reyna, I have the life I was given."

"_Alcohol_ isn't the way to cope."

"Oh," he says. "_You_ want to talk coping mechanisms? Those seventeen kids? _My fault_. And the three from the quest before that. And however many kids die for the next quest. I'm praetor of this whole fucking camp, and I'm the reason _children_ are dying. So yeah, sometimes I just want a fucking _break_ for once."

"But you don't have to turn to alcohol," Reyna pleads.

"So I should just deal with everything the way you do?"

"I'm not killing my liver."

"Reyna, when's the last time you ate a meal without forcing yourself to throw it up after?"

She stops and stares up at him. A breathless "_What?_" escapes her mouth in a whisper.

"Stop talking to me like I'm the only one with issues in this equation," he snaps, standing up from the table. He wants to lash out at her, to vent fifteen years of anger and hurt and frustration at the only other person who _gets it_, but before he can get more words out, he finds himself choking back tears.

"You're my best friend," he says finally, and he wants to say so much more, but he can't get the words out. _I'm worried about you._

There's an almost palpable shift in the air and Reyna just reaches forward and grabs him by arms. He lets her try to hold him, but her skeletal figure isn't enough, so he holds out his own arms to hug her.

It's the first time he can remember crying in front of another person.

* * *

_Dad_, he thinks later that night as he lies in bed, _Or capital-G God, or whoever I'm supposed to ask for things._

He just wants a clean slate, a chance to start over, to fix his problems and do something good for once. He doesn't pray often – or ever, really – and he wonders if maybe Jupiter is up there listening somewhere.

Usually by this point he's had about six shots and is blissfully drunk. He's only had two tonight.

It's progress.

_Yes_, he thinks, as he slips off to sleep. If he could start over…

* * *

_Am I crazy to think that I could be in love  
__When it all ends up, it all ends up wasted  
__I'd give you my heart but I'd just fuck it up  
__And we'd end up, we'd end up wasted_

_Trying to numb the pain away  
__I know how to leave but not how to stay  
__I wonder if I will ever find someone to fill me up inside  
__Someone to kiss my fears away  
__And if I believed in God I'd pray, to God I'd pray_

* * *

**A/N: **So I meant to get work done to update one of the multi-chaps I'm working on but then this happened. I have a plan for a continuation, but I'm going to mark this as complete for now because obviously I can't be trusted to update regularly ever.

Lyrics belong to MKTO, characters belong to Rick Riordan.

If you or someone you know struggles with substance abuse or an eating disorder or depression or PTSD or anything else, please seek help through the appropriate resources. You are important.

Review?


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